


South of the Mason-Dixon

by Morgan



Series: Grace Under Fire [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: During Canon, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-06
Updated: 2010-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-03 07:09:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8702341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: You can go looking for plot if you like. Let me know if you find it. "Sam is slouched down for him, legs spread just so Dean can lean in and feel him, muscles tense, all that warm skin a tease under Sam's baggy shirt and Dean likes all this just fine except he can't give it his all, like he likes to do while kissing, because he has to keep some of his attention on their surroundings and he knows Sam is doing the same."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Dean has one hand folded high up around Sam's ribs, thumb brushing the nipple on his right side. His other hand is resting on Sam's neck, weighted and significant. Sam is pressing himself back into the shadows against the wall of the little alcove they've found themselves in. This is not a bar, not really, the open lay out of the place like an old barn, which is probably what is has been at some point.

They're far south enough that the place serves Hoppin’ John and there's a hard lining of dusty gold to the sunshine.

The place is loud and noisy and the patrons are wearing shit kickers and maybe, probably, they wouldn't really like the show if they caught him and Sam at it, but Sam's been sitting at the nicked bar pressed against Dean all night giving him these small deliberate glances out of the corner of his eye, just a hint of his objective coming through and it's been a while so Dean has been feeling the air get denser, soupy and heated, around them all fucking night long.

Sam had gotten up and walked off towards the bathrooms and Dean gave him some time before going to find him, so here they are, in a dark corner somewhere off to the left of the bar, at the start of some dead end hallway leading to the staff area and Dean knows they can't stay, but he just needs a little taste before they take this somewhere else.

Sam is kissing him back, hands settled on Dean's hips, so entitled, so uncomplicated and Dean hasn't been drinking enough for that to be the reason he's feeling so out of control already. It's more to do with the way Sam sucks on his tongue and moans into him, a sound he can't hear over the ruckus, but feels through his palms.

Sam is slouched down for him, legs spread just so Dean can lean in and feel him, muscles tense, all that warm skin a tease under Sam's baggy shirt and Dean likes all this just fine except he can't give it his all, like he likes to do while kissing, because he has to keep some of his attention on their surroundings and he knows Sam is doing the same.

Sam breaks the kiss, mouths a trail to Dean's ear, breathes against his neck, hot and wet.

-Fuck, Dean, just... Sam says and his hands clench on Dean's hips when Dean leans more of his weight on him in reply.

-Gonna get us into trouble, Dean says right up against Sam's ear, because damn this place is loud.

Sam puts a hand to Dean's shoulder to shove and Dean plants himself more solidly, not letting himself be moved just yet, just so he can feel Sam make a fist in his shirt at the shoulder and he knows the vibration under his own palm is Sam's good moan, the one that says "fuck, yeah, right there". He also knows they're pushing their luck already, but what else is new?

He angles his head and lip-reads Sam's words. They look a lot like "come on, baby" and that makes Dean grin savagely, because Sam doesn't call him that unless he's pretty far gone.

He slides one hand down and in under Sam's t-shirt, gets to naked skin, and it's always like that, there's always an electric crackle of want at that first skin-on-skin contact. Sam tries to curl into it too, tries to push into Dean's ghosting palm, just get something good and solid going, but they really fucking can't do this here and they haven't even got a room yet, and Dean is pretty sure they're not going to make it out of here unless they get going right the hell now.

He's still caught in the sensation of Sam's skin against his palm, the slightly sweaty, sticky heat pouring off Sam, the way Sam can derail his every thought by rolling his hips like that and he knows his own skin is heating up and he's hard, of course he is, and Sam is about a hair's breadth away from getting fucked into the wall right here. Sam. Sam. Sam. It hits Dean like that sometimes.

Truth be told it hits Dean like that a lot.

They need to get out of here, they need to get a room. Seriously. They need to get a fucking room. He's telling himself "get a room" even as he leans in a kisses Sam again, rubbing up against him, letting it run mindless and wild for a few minutes.

Sam's the one who manages to keep his wits about him enough to knock Dean back a little, bucking with his hips, which isn't all that helpful, and pushing at him, which works a little better, but still makes Dean want to fight his way back to that mouth. Jesus.

It's sort of a hassle to get out of the bar. There are a lot of locals and it's Friday and there's loud, loud music with a wicked undercurrent to it, something primal, something with more base than melody and Dean can feel it through the soles of his boots and all the way to the base of his skull. Sam is right behind him, that steady flanking position he takes up almost unconsciously. They move through the throng, too smart to push, polite but inexorable.

Once the door bangs shut behind them there's still a little bleed of noise, but it's a lot better. Sam steps up next to him and they stand there in the slight chill of the parking lot side by side for a few moments and cool off, get their hearing back. Dean is acutely aware of Sam next to him, of his heat and his stance and the way he's ever so slightly inclined towards Dean.

It's all there between them, like the plummeting feeling right before a thunderstorm breaks for real and it's heavy over them, air moving restlessly around them and little tendrils of a swirling breeze tugging and pulling.

It's going to break any fucking minute and they would probably do better not being out in public in a hick bar parking lot when it does.

Dean pushes his shoulder into Sam's. Gets good solid returning pressure. They amble over to the Chevy.

Problem with all this is that there's nowhere to go. No, check that. The problem with all this is that Sam is sitting way the hell over there against the door, one arm flung up on the backrest, one long fingered hand casually plonked down in his own lap and he's not looking at Dean at all, but that doesn't mean anything, that doesn't mean Dean can't feel him sitting there, wanting things.

Dean wants things too.

Wants to slide over, right into the concave Sam's created for him. Wants to lick along the skin of Sam's throat, get him to tilt his head back and make the offer. Find the thud of a pulse with the flat of his tongue. Wants to push his hands inside Sam's shirt until he can feel the heat of his body and the coil of strength in him, feel the tension ratchet up higher until he's needy with it. Sam's skin will be flavored with salt and heat and smoke. Sam's mouth will hold a lingering taste of alcohol, fiery but clean.

Dean starts the car before he changes his mind about how well they can fit in the front seat and drives out of the lot with the slow exaggerated care of someone with a little too much on their mind to be able to peel out.

Dean wants to fill his hands with skin and muscle and have it all be there, have Sam. He wants to hold Sam to him and fuck him until neither of them remember where they are, what state they're in, not that that would take much.

Next thing Dean knows they’re in the room Sam got for them. He didn’t lose time because he was hurt, or because of blood loss, or because he’s drunk, which is kind of different. He lost time thinking about this thing right here. This thing where Sam has stuck one hand inside his jacket and wormed his arm all the way around Dean’s back and is hauling him in so close he can feel where Sam’s buttons dig into him. He would be grinning, except he’s got Sam’s tongue in his mouth so that would be bad form.

Sam moves his head to the side and talks into Dean’s neck.

-That was really fucking stupid.

-Awh, shut up, you loved it.

-Doesn’t make it any less stupid, Sam says and presses his hot, open mouth to the place where Dean’s neck meets his shoulder.

There’s the heady smell of Sam himself mingling with the overly noticeable scent of whatever bathroom soap he used at the bar clinging to his hands. It’s not a bad scent, but it doesn’t belong on Sam, it makes him smell slightly unfamiliar.

Sam’s arms wind around him and Dean slips his hands up the back of Sam’s shirts and onto bare skin and he just drags the caress out, feeling the muscle there shift under his palms and it’s good, it’s bluntly physical and direct and good. He backs Sam up against a dresser that catches Sam so he sits down and the second he gets what’s going on one of his legs wind up around Dean’s, heel settling at the back of Dean’s knee.

There’s a harder press of metal along Dean’s back and he knows that’s the knife Sam has strapped to his forearm. Dean’s left all his weapons in the car, except the gun tucked into his jacket, but Sam is stripping him out of that right now anyway. He keeps pressing kisses into Sam’s skin wherever he can get at it while holding his arms out and away so Sam can peel off his shirt too.

There’s good solid contact between them, they’re smashed up close together and Dean is leaning into Sam, moving his hips restlessly while Sam rubs his leg up and down the back of Dean’s calf and that’s really fucking distracting when it makes them rub together like crazy. Sam has him out of his shirts now.

-There’s a bed right there, Sam says, biting at Dean’s throat, licking at the bite and then rolling his hips right up against Dean so good Dean’s eyes half close.

Dean sort of wishes he had the patience right now to do this right, go down on Sam and make him give up those noises, those growly vaguely feral noises, but right now, he’s kind of fucking distracted by how good it feels to just push against him, press his whole body to Sam’s and have him move with it until the dresser knocks against the wall. Sam pushes his t-shirt up, rucking it up almost under Dean’s arms and runs his hands down Dean’s back to his ass. He takes hold and pulls him in.

-Seriously. Bed. Right there.

-Yeah, yeah, Dean says back and kisses him some more to shut him up.

When they come up for air Dean draws back and takes in the flushed and slant eyed look of his brother. Sam is beautiful like this. Sam is always beautiful like this, when he’s a little lost in it and breathing hard. Dean pulls back and drags Sam with him, stands him on his feet and strips him out of his jacket, his shirts.

Dean undoes the Velcro straps of the knife strapped to Sam’s arm with one hand and opens the buttons on his fly with the other. Sam’s eyes go wide and then seriously dark as he takes that in. He hums under his breath and waits until Dean’s set the knife down on the dresser behind Sam’s back before darting in for another kiss that packs about the punch of one of Sam’s right crosses.

Sam toes out of his sneakers and shimmies until his jeans are hanging perilously low on his hips. He smiles at Dean, slow and sweet and Dean sees that for what it is. Sam wants him to finish the job, so Dean does, sticking his hands inside Sam’s jeans, palms flat to his hips, inching down one side, then the other, dragging off boxers and all while he’s at it. Sam grabs hold of the back of his own t-shirt at the collar and pulls it off in one quick snap of movement, displacing the air around them and Dean is mesmerized by the way Sam’s muscles move under his skin, the way his stomach tenses.

Sam is beautifully hard, too, cock proud and flirting with him, so he closes his right hand around it just to feel it twitch in his grip. Sam breathes out, a rush of heat across Dean’s down-turned face and there’s a soft curse in there somewhere, but that could be either of them, or both.

Sam moves his hips, a stutter thrust and Dean wants nothing more than to taste that, but he’s got other objectives right now that are a little more important. Sam is naked, and Dean’s still got his jeans, t-shirt and boots on. Dean strokes a couple of times just to see that urgent look on Sam’s face and then lets go, moves so they aren’t touching at all.

-So, get on the bed, Dean says, and he’s proud of how steady his own voice is.

Sam does, grinning. He tugs the bedspread off and lays down on his back, legs slightly parted, one hand on himself and one arm pillowing his head, spreading himself out like the best kind of invitation and Dean can’t get out of the rest of his clothes fast enough. He puts one booted foot up on the foot end of the bed, standing so Sam is spread out before him and never takes his eyes off Sam as he undoes the laces. Sam sees him watching like that and gives him a show. He lowers his lids and spreads his legs wider, shows Dean everything, stroking himself slowly.

Sam is a fucking tease.

Sam has this ability to make Dean’s mind scramble and throw riffs from songs around the pounding of his own blood in his ears and Dean has to bite down on the inside of his own lip to not mewl when he sees Sam twist his wrist and close his eyes and give this short exhale that is almost a moan before opening his eyes again, fastening them on Dean’s face with something greedy alive in them. Fuck.

Dean’s boots thump thump against the door where he chucks them. Sam looks sort of amused for about a second and then Dean peels off his t-shirt and jeans and socks and underwear and it’s a fucking relief to be naked and crawling up the bed towards Sam. Sam just spreads his legs wider and lets Dean in.

Dean licks the inside of Sam’s thigh on his way there, and the slippery head of his cock, and he bites at the bunched muscle of Sam’s stomach and slicks wetly over a nipple, sampling a little of everything before he gets to Sam’s mouth and gives in to the pull of full body contact, Sam’s hands flying to his ass as soon as he’s settled. They’re moving against each other softly, with care, and Dean can feel the full body shiver Sam gives him for that while they kiss.

It’s slow and sweet for about three long drawn breaths and then Sam moans into Dean’s mouth and pulls his leg up, pressing his heel into the meat of Dean’s ass and from there on out there’s a brush fire catching in both of them.

Sam uses every inch of his body to arch into and twine around Dean and it’s hard to keep track of what the hell he’s supposed to be doing while he’s opening Sam up. Sam’s good noises are different when they’re like this. They’re a little more strained and more breathless, but they still go straight to Dean’s cock and he’s getting to the point where fingering Sam is nice but not enough in any way.

-Come on, Dean. Come on, please. Go slow some other day, come on, Sam says into his neck and Dean thinks “okay, yeah” and “thank god”.

Skin to skin and heart to heart is really good when Dean gets all this too, all the wet heat of Sam clutching at him as he sinks in and Sam does something so incredibly right, lifting his hips into Dean’s downwards slide, moaning right up in his face and clutching Dean even closer. Sam’s fingernails dig in somewhere at the base of Dean’s spine and his vision whites out a little as he tries to adjust.

Sam twist and moves and squeezes and he’s impatient already, despite Dean being so deep in him and there wasn’t enough time before then and there’s not enough time now either, because Dean has forgotten how to breathe and he’s not likely to remember anytime soon if Sam keeps doing that. Jesus.

Dean kisses him. Sam likes that. Dean kisses him some more and then sets his knees in the mattress and gives a solid push that makes them both forget what they were doing, left hanging sharing air and spit, but not kissing now. Dean nails Sam’s sweet spot dead on and hears the tiniest, most beautiful little cut back whimper way back in Sam’s throat so he does it again and again and Sam is clutching at him, fucking back, shoving his hips into Dean’s.

Sam’s eyes are barely open anymore and his hands are so strong on Dean’s lower back, helping him get deeper, move harder. Sam is burning up inside, so fucking hot, so tight and Dean can feel the sweat between them. He slides on a roll to give Sam’s cock some friction, and watches as Sam’s eyes close all the way at that, watches Sam twist his head to the side, lost in it.

He nips at Sam’s jaw.

-No. Show me, he says and Sam’s eyes snap back open, find him again.

Sam is so fucking strong, so rich in all that sharp energy and purpose that makes him good at what he does and he gives it all to Dean in that moment, gives him all the strength and all the power, never surrendering anything, just giving it all to have it all back again and it’s that and the intense pleasure spiking when they move together that makes Dean want to break every law, every rule, just to have this.

There’s nothing else. There’s just the two of them. There’s the pleasure of skin and sweat and heat and movement, and Dean is trying so hard to hold on for a little longer. Sam moans for real now, moans and begs. Dean can’t get close enough, can’t get deep enough, his body working without any grace now. He can’t hold back the punishing strokes, or the way he clutches at Sam’s arm. He can feel the push from Sam as his hands knead at the muscles of Dean’s ass, dragging him ever closer.

It’s white hot heat, searing and sharp and so good it makes Dean want to scream. He kisses Sam instead, presses his head back into the pillow with the sheer force of it and swallows down the answering noise out of Sam until they’re both hanging on a knife’s edge and Sam is squirming and sweating bullets.

Pleasure roars through Dean, fills him, takes him over, runs him down and Sam’s whole body is locking around him until he has hardly an inch to move, feeling like it’s being wrung from him, one pulse at a time. Sam is gripping him so hard he’s going to have bruises and Dean wants that too. Want some indelible mark on him from this.

They lie there limp and fucked out for a while, breathing together and trying to come down, feeling the quivering shards of pleasure ricocheting back and forth. When Dean shifts, Sam shudders. When Sam squirms, Dean shivers. It goes on and on. It’s too good to ignore. It’s a little too good and just like that they sort of stumble into another fuck, but this time is slow and languorous and sticky sweet and Sam kisses over all of Dean’s face and calls him “baby” and Dean just slides his hips forward each time, letting him.

Pleasure this time is different, deeper, more drawn out.

When they finally get themselves sorted back into two separate individuals with all limbs and capacities accounted for Sam breathes out a long sigh. Dean is lying on his side and Sam is sprawled out on his back. Dean can see a small, inscrutable smile play over Sam’s lips.

-Found the bed, Sam says.

-Well, you gave directions twice, Dean answers.

There’s another long pause and then Sam’s hand skims down Dean’s side and curls over his hip. He holds on. Dean grabs a corner of the wrecked sheet and rubs at Sam’s stomach with it before settling his hand there.

-Sam?

-Yeah?

-What state are we in?

Sam looks over at him, sleepy, mussed and messed up in the best way.

-South of the Mason-Dixon.

Dean smiles. Not bad.

-Dean?

-Yes?

-What motel are we in? Which room?

-I have no idea.

Sam’s smile widens, grows warmer and he leans over and kisses Dean deep and sweet.

 

END


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